


Vanilla Twilight

by thehoundisdead



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, IT Chapter 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 19:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoundisdead/pseuds/thehoundisdead
Summary: Georgia is lonely without Bill there with him; Stan just wants things to go back to the way they were before.based on the songvanilla twilightby owl citynow in russian!





	Vanilla Twilight

There are postcards in the supermarket that Stan shops at every week. 

They line the end cap of his favorite aisle (close to the entrance he always uses but not close enough to catch as much foot traffic), bright and cheerful and yet somehow utterly nondescript. There are lots of flowers and maps and cityscapes that fill out bubble letters spelling  _ Georgia _ . They don’t show the impossible heat or the gravel back roads or the southern drawl that accents most of the people around here. 

Stan walks by them every time he’s here without a second thought. Who would he send a postcard to anyways, his mother? Actually, she might appreciate that but still. He usually doesn’t give much attention to the things. 

Except today there’s a new one. The corners are lined with little white Cherokee Roses over a plain brown background, a thick black stripe going down the card, and most importantly the phrase  _ “Greetings from Georgia!” _ going across the middle. It’s not the roses that catch his eye though, not really. 

He spends a good five minutes staring at the card, trying to figure out why it’s caught his eye but nothing comes to mind. With a shrug he goes to place it back in it’s spot at the end of the aisle. He can hear the customer in front of him finishing up and he really should be loading his groceries onto the counter, but he can’t stop looking at the card. 

He throws it in his cart and resolutely doesn’t think about it again until he gets home. 

~*-*~

“So? How’s the middle of fucking nowhere Georgia?” 

“I don’t live in the middle of nowhere, Richie,” Stan rolls his eyes, hoping Richie can hear it in his voice through the phone, “I live in Atlanta.” 

“You’re in Georgia, Stannifer, it’s the middle of nowhere, whether you like it or not. Besides, I don’t know why you chose  _ there _ of all places to move,” Richie laughs into the receiver, “You  _ should _ have gone to Florida, would have fit right in with all the grandmas.” 

“You’re exaggerating,” Stan snaps, all the while thinking how nice it would be to live on a beach right about now, to sit under palm trees and breathe in the salty air. And  _ sure _ he likes puzzles and bird watching and- 

“How is that an exaggeration?” Richie squawks; Stan can picture him throwing his head back with his hands in the air the way he always did when they fought. He misses seeing it, “You literally wore khaki shorts when we were  _ thirteen _ , Staniel Day Lewis.” 

“To look respectable!” 

“We swam in shitty water all summer,  _ who _ were you trying to look respectable for?”

“Um, myself?” Stan quips, adopting a haughty tone that he knows gets under Richie’s skin, “Some of us have a little self-respect, Richie.” 

“Excuse me, I respect myself very much.”

“You tell jokes about masturbating on stage every night,” Stan deadpans into the phone, cracking a smile when he hears Richie screech. 

“And I respect myself the  _ whole time _ !” 

“Even when you tell the bit about being single for five years?” 

“...Okay maybe not  _ then _ but the rest of the time-”

“And I still don’t know  _ where _ you even got that joke from, Richie, you’ve been with Eddie since we were, like, nineteen and I  _ know _ how overbearing he can be. There’s no way you’ve even had a day to  _ breathe _ on your own in the last ten years-”

“Oh, for the last time! Not all the jokes are  _ factual _ ,” Richie yells, groaning when he hears Stan snort on the other end, “Besides, I  _ know _ what it’s like to be alone. All those years in the closet, watching Eddie parade around all summer in those tiny shorts, you don’t understand my pain, Nastaniel.” 

Stan sees a flash of bony shoulders and red hair gleaming in the sun, high socks and a rusty bike flying past him down the street. He thinks he understands Richie’s pain fairly well, but he’s not about to bring that up, “It just seems a little disingenuous, is all.” 

“I’m a  _ comedian  _ not Abraham Lincoln.” 

“Sure, sure,” Stan waves off, humming happily into the phone. He misses his friends and the cool Maine air, picnics spent by the quarry and nights wrapped up in strong arms and-

“Or maybe you do understand my pain,” Richie inquires, breaking off Stan’s line of thought. 

“What?” 

“It’s been two months and-”

“Richie,” Stan breathes quietly into the phone, chest already closing in, squeezing his heart and lungs, but Richie just keeps going. 

“-you  _ do _ live in Atlanta, one of the gayest cities-”

“Richie,” he tries again, quieter through the growing ache in his throat. 

“-it’s reasonable to assume maybe you’ve found  _ someone _ -”

“Beep, beep, Richie!” he nearly shouts this time, breathing heavy into the following silence. 

“Stan,” his voice is gentler this time, apologetic, “Stan, you know you can always just-” 

“How is he?” Stan asks before he can stop himself, before he can think better of it. Bill doesn’t have a social media presence, besides a largely PR run twitter account to promote his books, so he can’t check up on him and he can’t, he can’t just  _ call _ , not after everything, not when Bill hasn’t called him either. 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Richie’s voice is not unkind but he’s never given Stan the slack he wants in these situations. Probably because he’s worried. Stupid Richie always being a good friend. 

“Richie, you know I can’t-”

“You  _ can _ , Stan,” he says in a soft voice before snorting, “Ha, that rhymed. Get it? Can? Stan?”

“Richie.” 

“I just think it might be good for him too, to hear from you-”

“Richie,  _ please _ ,” he all but whimpers in a tone that surprises even himself; he’s never heard his voice that desperate before and if Richie’s silence is anything to go by, neither has he. 

“He’s...” Richie starts, pausing to collect his thoughts, “Bev told me whenever she’s seen him he’s just been writing on that junky old typewriter you got him but he throws away all the pages before anyone has a chance to read them.

“And he’s been quiet lately, too, on the phone at least. Eds said the same thing, it’s like he just doesn’t know what to say anymore,” Richie’s voice is sad, too sad for Stan to handle; he fights the urge to hang up the phone right then and there, “I really think you should call him.” 

“It’s not like he’s tried to call me, either-”

“What the fuck does that matter? I get that everything sucks, Stan, I really do but you were friends first. You can’t just let that all go,” Richie is stern in a way he normally isn’t, in a way he normally only reserves for Stan when he thinks Stan is being stupid. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Yeah, yeah, think about it,” Richie waves away like he doesn’t believe Stan. It’s not that unreasonable of him, “Listen, I got to go, Eds and I are heading out to pick up some dinner.” 

“Okay,” Stan says back, feeling relieved and altogether small at once, “Tell Eddie I said hi.”

“Will do, Stanley Urine,” Richie laughs, trying to lighten a mood that has been irrevocably shattered. Stan appreciates the attempt anyways. 

“Fuck you,” he snaps back and hangs up the phone, throwing it to the other side of the couch. He can’t call Bill. He just can’t. 

~*-*~

The puzzle laid out in front of Stanley is almost finished. The eyes on the blue parrots stare back at him, silently pleading for him to hurry up so they can be complete. It’s a five-thousand piece puzzle, which normally would have taken him quite a while but he’s only been working on this one for a few days and can already see it all coming together. He only has a handful of pieces left and then he’ll be done and back to doing nothing. 

He doesn’t feel proud of himself for finishing it so quickly, although he’s sure this might be a new record of his. He usually works a lot slower but that’s only because he usually has a lot of distractions. It’d taken him forever, nearly a month, to complete his last one and that had been less pieces than his current project. 

_ “Another puzzle, Stanley?” Bill had laughed, setting his drink down on their coffee table and letting himself land in the spot next to Stanley, jostling him but, thankfully, not the puzzle.  _

_ “And what else would you have me do, huh?” Stan asked, looking up at Bill with a half smile, dark curls falling into his face. He goes to fix it but stops when he feels gentle fingers brush against his forehead, slowly moving the hair out of the way and running through it while they’re there, “My boyfriend has been locked in his office all day.”  _

_ “Hmm, I don’t know, watch TV? A movie?” Bill murmurs, leaning in closer to brush his nose against Stan’s jaw, “Maybe read a book by one of your favorite authors? Edgar Allen Poe? Ray Bradbury? William Denbrough?”  _

_ “Mmm,” Stan laughs, leaning into Bill’s touch, puzzle almost completely forgotten as he turns to the side to scoot in closer, “Those sound like  _ your  _ favorite authors.”  _

_ “I have a feeling you like at least one of them,” Bill laughs, pulling back far enough that Stan can see the amused glint in his eyes.  _

_ “You’re right,” Stan says, moving in closer to brush his thumb against Bill’s cheekbone, “Ray Bradbury has some pretty great short stories.”  _

_ “How can I argue with that,” Bill laughs, grabbing one of Stan’s legs, fingers pressing into the back of Stan’s knee, and pulling it over so Stan can straddle his lap. His hands fall to Stan’s waist, fingertips slipping underneath the fabric of his shirt, “You could have barged into this boyfriend’s office, then. Demanded he pay attention to you.”  _

_ “I could have,” Stan says softly, one hand resting on Bill’s shoulder, the other coming to cradle his head, fingers carding through soft brown hair, “But then he’d never finish his book. And he is one of my favorite authors, you know.”  _

_ “I knew it, you’re just as dark and twisted as he is-” Stan cuts him off with a kiss, lips gently brushing against his. One of Bill’s hands holds his hip just a little tighter while the other travels up his back, fingers slowly and firmly tracing his spine, memorizing every bump and curve.  _

_ “Maybe,” Stan whispers against his mouth, heart melting at the feel of those lips smiling against his own, “But you love it.”  _

_ “Well I can’t deny that. I love you,” Bill whispers back, leaning over to kiss behind his ear, the little spot on his neck right below the corner of his jaw, before finally coming back to rest his forehead against Stanley’s, “I love you, Stanley Uris.” _

Bill isn’t here to distract him now. No one is, really. He has work friends and he’s met everyone in the community but it’s not the same. The streets of Atlanta don’t call out to him the way the streets back home do. There’s no movie nights with Mike or café lunches with Bev. No Richie and Eddie to bother or laugh with. No Bill. 

The silence isn’t so bad, he supposes. He gets a lot of work done and he has time to really breathe here. To focus. It’s what his dad would have always wanted for him; a nice house in a nice neighborhood paid for by a nice salary that he made all on his own and time to sit and reflect. And silence. 

Stan can deal with it most of the time. He fills the air with classical music or movies he can never seem to pay attention to. So he’s okay. Until he looks over and catches a glimpse of his own hand, spread wide against the table. He stares at it for a second, trying to figure out why the sight of it makes his heart crack and ache and when it dawns on him, he finds himself no longer interested in what he’s doing. 

The spaces between his fingers look too empty like that. Bill’s hands have always fit perfectly with his own, their fingers thread together with no discomfort, pulling each other around alleys and through canals and now. Now his hand looks so lonely. He’s lonely. 

He stares at the puzzle and the puzzle stares back at him. It takes him a moment to remember when he’d gotten it; it had been a present from Bill on the third night of Hanukkah last year. Bill always participated in his traditions and gave Stan little gifts leading up to the last night when he usually gave him something special. 

They didn’t make it to the last night, though. By then, Stan was staying on Richie’s couch, enduring overly concerned looks from both Richie and Eddie and pretending everything was fine. He finalized his plans for moving to Georgia there, sitting up straight on Richie’s horrible uncomfortable couch. Alone. 

~*-*~

The sheets on his bed are slowly suffocating him, one second at a time. He watches the clock tick, feels himself losing sleep as the numbers taunt him.  _ Tick tick tick. _ His room is too dark, his house is too quiet and his bed is too empty. He’s has to be at work in eight hours, seven hours, six-

Throwing the blankets back violently, he swings his legs around and stumbles towards the wall to turn the light on. His bedroom is huge, wide windows that view the spacious backyard, a bookshelf, a sitting chair and a bed that is too big for just himself clutter the room, except not really. There is too much space left, space that Stanley will never be able to fill on his own.

He paces the room, trying to decide what to do, how to spend his time since he apparently won’t be sleeping. His pajamas are wrinkled and just a little too long for his legs, so they rub against the carpet with every step. Sentencing himself to a night spent tossing and turning, he goes to climb back into bed when something on his bookshelf catches his eye. 

It’s the postcard, the one he’d bought earlier in the week, leaning against his books, all meticulously alphabetized. He grabs at it, feeling the glossy paper underneath his thumb and looks back at the shelf.  _ The Glowing  _ stares back at him, the book Bill had released two years ago. The book itself had been a Hanukkah gift from Bill, not necessarily because of its content, but the inscription. Stanley pulls it carefully from the shelf and cracks it open, flipping slowly to the opening page. 

_ To Stanley, my love.  _

_ May I be there for all your best dreams and worst nightmares.  _

He’d forgotten. Or not forgotten really, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, not all the time. But now as he looks at the little letters that mean more to him than they have any right to, he remembers. The book wasn’t out yet, but Bill usually gave him a copy early because he really wasn’t lying when he said Bill was one of his favorite authors. So when Stan saw the present wrapped in gold paper he sort of suspected that was it, it was the right size and weight after all. 

He’d opened it up and looked at the glossy paper of the book jacket, saw the name and smiled up at Bill.  _ Open it,  _ Bill had said with a tiny smile of his own and nodded toward the book in Stan’s hands. So Stan had opened it carefully, flipping past the title and the copyright page to this.  _ Bill, _ he’d whispered, fingers tracing the letters on the page as if he could feel them.  _ Do you like it?  _ Bill had said back, voice quiet, eyes wide and earnest.  _ Bill, _ Stan’s voice was choked, his throat closing up and eyes watering,  _ Bill, I love it. Bill.  _ And with that he’d thrown the book aside and launched himself at Bill, who caught him with steady hands.  _ I love it, _ Stan whispered into Bill’s neck, pulling back with a hand on either side of Bill’s face,  _ I love you.  _

It feels so long ago now. The couple that they’d been, steady and in love and honest is now long gone but the past has a way of remaining with them whether they like it or not. The jacket is still shiny but the pages are worn now; Stan had read and re-read it with a vigour he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, one hand coming up to rub furiously at his eyes while the other still holds onto the book and the postcard. He stares down at them for a moment longer and decides to bring them with him into the kitchen, where he pours himself a small glass of whiskey and takes his findings out to the back porch with him. 

The air outside is a little chilly with no sun to warm it up, and Stan turns on two small lanterns instead of the porch light to keep everything feeling quiet. The concrete porch beneath him is cool, and although he has furniture out here tonight that just doesn’t feel right. He flips through the book, reading through all his favorite parts; some pages he’d dogeared, in other spots he’d simply highlighted lines that were particularly meaningful. 

This one starts off with a group of kids riding their bikes in the summer of 1983. They’re a rat pack group of losers, but they love each other which will be important later on when they have to defeat the Thing. There’s a scene in the beginning that Stan loves, mostly because it’s before anything scary happens; it’s just the kids messing around on a hot summer day. 

_ “The chain snapped,” Willie grumbles, looking down at his mess of a bike where it lies in the middle of the street. Johnny rides up behind him, already moaning as if it was  _ his _ bike that was currently in such a sorry state.  _

_ “You broke your fucking bike?” he asks, riding in circles around Willie and the bike-corpse, “Summer  _ just _ started, are you fucking kidding me?”  _

_ “Well, I didn’t do it on purpose, Johnny,” Willie snaps back, shooting Johnny the finger.  _

_ “I’m sure you can get it fixed somewhere,” calls Max, who rides up from the opposite direction.  _

_ “Or maybe I could steal some of my dad’s tools,” Sarah shrugs from her place perched on the curb, “We might be able to fix it.”  _

_ “Excuse me, do any of you fuckers know how to use tools?” Johnny asks incredulously, still riding in circles.  _

_ “Shut up, Johnny.”  _

_ “God, the only tool here is you,” Sarah snaps, smirking when Johnny throws back his head and sighs.  _

_ “I’m just saying, now Willie’s gonna have to walk everywhere and need I add, it’s fucking summer-” _

_ “He’s not going to walk everywhere,” Max cuts Johnny off, looking at Willie from the corner of his eye, “We’ll get it fixed but until then he can ride on the back of my bike.”  _

_ “Thanks,” Willie mumbles just loud enough for Max to hear, lips curling up into a tiny smile.  _

_ “It’s no problem, really,” Max replies just as quiet, feeling the warm rush of blood under his cheeks and- _

“Shit,” Stan says, dropping the book onto his lap and staring out into the night sky, “Fucking Bill.” 

That was  _ them _ . Stan hadn’t remembered, not until just now but that was  _ them _ . There was one summer when they were all kids that Stan had broken his bike; he hadn’t snapped the chain but he had irrevocably disrupted the front tire. His parents, probably to teach him a lesson in responsibility or something of the like, hadn’t gotten him another one for two whole weeks which felt like a lifetime back then. He’d been despaired, especially when Richie had loudly proclaimed that he guessed Stan was out of most of their summer games because walking would take forever. 

_ “N-No way,” Bill argued, throwing an angry look at Richie.  _

_ “What? I’m just saying, if he can’t even  _ get _ there, how is supposed to come with us?” Richie asked, throwing his hands in the air and then dropping them back down to rest on the handlebars of his own bike.  _

_ “We’re not l-leaving him b-behind,” Bill fought back, firm as ever.  _

_ “Bill, it’s okay,” Stan mumbled and tried not to feel sorry for himself. There were plenty of things to do inside anyways; now maybe he’d finally have time to study the way his parents wanted him to.  _

_ “N-No it’s n-not,” Bill snapped back, looking angrily at Stan’s bike, “It’s s-summer, we’re not leaving you b-behind. You can ride on the b-back of my bike.”  _

_ “Are you sure?” Stan asks, looking at Bill’s face for any sign of uncertainty. Where he would expect to seem even the slightest hint of regret he sees pure determination.  _

_ “P-positive,” Bill nods, looking at Stan for a moment longer than necessary and then turning his gaze on the rest of the group, “Now, can we go to the qu-quarry already?” _

So Stan had spent that two weeks on the back of Bill’s bike, arms wrapped around Bill and face pressed into his back. He felt bad at first, especially because he mostly didn’t feel bad at all. He liked the wind blowing through his hair as he and Bill flew down hills, he liked holding Bill in his arms, liked the way it felt when his fingers brushed against the skin of Bill’s arm, burning hot from the sun. He  _ had  _ felt bad that Bill had to carry this burden, but everytime someone else offered to take Stan on their bike, Bill was quick to jump in.  _ I don’t m-mind, _ he’d start, looking almost frantically between Stan and whoever offered,  _ R-really, I don’t.  _

The day that Stan had rolled out of his garage on his brand new bike, Bill had looked almost disappointed but surely Stan must have been imagining that, right? He didn’t get a chance to think on it further because then Richie had been there, loud as ever and the moment passed. 

But now, reading the section in Bill’s book, Stan thinks he must have liked it too. He wouldn’t have held onto those two weeks for all these years if they weren’t colored in a rosy fond haze. Stan can feel his heart swell at the thought, of Bill keeping those memories close, keeping Stan close, even if he couldn’t keep him forever. 

_ You should call him, _ Richie had said, sounding more sure of himself than he ever seemed to. And he’s right, they were friends for years before they ever embarked on anything romantic. Stan’s not ready to lose all of that, not on top of what he’s already lost, Bill can decide he doesn’t want to date Stan anymore but he can’t decide that their history doesn’t matter. 

His phone taunts him from where it sits on his knee. He should call. He  _ should _ . The best way to get over this whole thing is to talk. The more they talk, the easier talking will be and when Stan inevitably moves back to Derry they can all be together again without it being weird. It’s what’s best for the group. It’s what’s best for each other. 

He dials the house phone number Bill insisted on having, why when they both have fully functioning cell phones he’s not sure but Bill had really wanted one. This phone’s ringer is quieter though, there’s a significantly lower chance of it actually waking Bill up, of Bill answering. And he’s right because before long he’s being sent to voicemail. 

“Hey, Bill, it’s, it’s Stan,” he starts with a sigh,  _ he has caller ID, he knows it’s you,  _ “I started rereading your book tonight,  _ The Glowing _ , and it’s, it’s really good but you totally stole that scene with the bikes from our childhood. And I want to be mad that I didn’t remember until now except, except I really liked getting to experience the whole thing all over again. I don’t know if I ever really thanked you for what you did that summer, but thanks I guess. Just fifteen years late, huh?

“You might think it would hurt to think about things like that, the way we used to be, and it does a little, but mostly, mostly it’s comforting. Being out here, all alone, in Georgia is a lot less scary when I remember the things we did. I feel a lot less alone when I think of you,” Stan stops, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing quietly into the receiver, “That was dumb, I dont know why I said that.

“What I’m really calling about though, is that, I still want to be friends, I still want to  _ talk _ Bill and I know you might not want that right now, not with me, but, but if you could just give me a call when you have the time,” his breath shutters and his sits on his left hand to keep from picking at the skin around his thumbnail, “Just call me. If you want. I’ll always be here to listen.” 

Stan hangs up the phone, wishing he could walk into his old house like he used to everyday and delete the message before Bill ever hears it. But he’s here and Bill is there and everything he said needed to be out there. He needs Bill to understand, even if he doesn’t want Stan as a lover anymore he always wanted him as a friend and if he still wants that now Stan is willing to try. 

He stays on the porch for the rest of the night, watching the sky shift from dark blue to orange and back to light blue. He stays there until he can hear his alarm for work go off from inside and shakes stiff limbs out so he can shower and start a day that felt like it hadn’t ever actually ended. He showers and ignores the growing pit of gnarling black in his stomach and heads to work like everything is okay. It’s going to be okay. 

~*-*~

Bill doesn’t call him while he’s at work, a fact that doesn’t surprise him and shouldn’t bother him. But he can feel it seeping into his veins like little pins digging in everytime he moves. He drives home in an increasingly intolerable silence and pretends that someone will be home when he gets there, making dinner or watching TV or clacking away on a laptop. But when he unlocks the front door the only sounds he’s greeted with are his own footsteps. 

Setting his stuff on the counter and dropping himself carefully onto the sofa, he pulls out his phone, staring at the blank screen in front of him. He’s about to call Richie, who’s probably doing a show, but he can still leave a nasty voicemail,  _ Why the fuck did you tell me to call Bill, I told you he didn’t want to talk to me, Richie, I fucking  _ told  _ you-  _

But it’s not Richie’s fault. It’s not Richie’s fault that they broke up or that Stan moved away or that he just wants them all to be friends again. It’s not Richie’s fault and tonight Stan will be better. He will go to sleep at a normal time and actually fall asleep and he won’t be tempted to call Bill and drop his bullshit on him. It’s not fair to any of them. 

He resigns himself to another quiet night in, working on his puzzle. He ignores the bird’s eyes that stare at him with questions and judgement. He ignores the ache in his stomach and the way his limbs seem to move more sluggish than usual. 

He’ll ignore everything for as long as it takes to move on. 

~*-*~

He stares into the darkness of his room for three whole hours this time before he gets back up, with a frustrated sigh. He’s had bouts of insomnia since he was a kid but in the last couple of years none of them have been this bad. Probably because he had someone there with him to talk to. 

Bill didn’t find out until after they’d been living together for two months. Stan was still so nervous about everything then, he didn’t want to add another item onto his list of neuroses for Bill to eventually detest. So he didn't say anything, instead on that night when he knew he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep, he’d slipped out of bed and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. They’d lived in a tiny apartment at the time leaving Stan with nowhere to escape but he was quiet; he didn’t expect for Bill to sneak up behind him, having been awoken by Stanley’s departure. 

_ “Mmm,” Bill mumbles, coming to a stop behind Stanley where he stands in front of the fridge and snakes his arms around his waist, chin rested softly on Stan’s shoulder, “Why are you awake?”  _

_ “Can’t sleep,” Stan mumbles back, closing the fridge and turning around in Bill’s arms so they face each other. He rests his head in the crook of Bill’s neck, smiling when he feels Bill’s fingers begin to card gently through his hair.  _

_ “Again?”  _

_ “Again what?” Stan asks into the smooth skin of Bill’s neck, worming his way closer to Bill as he wraps his arms around Bill’s waist.  _

_ “You were awake last night too,” Bill points out, fingernails lightly scraping against Stan’s scalp.  _

_ “I don’t know,” he replies, indulging himself in Bill’s warmth, “Sometimes I just can’t sleep.” _

_ “Like insomnia?” _

_ “Well, I really don’t think it’s that bad, Bill,” he starts, stopping when Bill pulls back to give him one of his  _ ‘are you serious’ _ looks, “Fine. Yes, like insomnia.”  _

_ “What do you usually do?” Bill asks, continuing to his work on Stan’s hair. Stan leans into it, closing his eyes and letting Bill’s presence comfort him. _

_ “Nothing really,” Stan shrugs, “Wait it out by myself. It’ll go away eventually.”  _

_ “You’re not alone anymore,” Bill whispers into the curls of his dark brown hair. _

_ “I can’t ask you to stay up all night just because I am,” Stan says, pulling back to look at Bill, who just gives him wide, confused eyes.  _

_ “Why not?”  _

_ “You’ll be tired,” Stan points out the obvious, rolling his eyes.  _

_ “So? Call it a perk of dating a writer: I can sleep in tomorrow,” Bill smiles smugly, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to Stan’s forehead, “Besides, you’re not asking, I’m offering. All you have to do is wake me up.”  _

_ “Bill.”  _

_ “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! It’ll be like having a sleepover, like when we were kids,” Bill stops, waggling his eyebrows when he adds, “Only sexier.”  _

_ “Hmm, for some reason having been awake since yesterday morning doesn’t exactly make me feel sexy,” Stan deadpans, raising unimpressed eyes to meet Bill’s.  _

_ “Oh, fine, if you insist I can’t tire you out in a fun way, I’m sure we can find something else to do,” Bill laughs, leaning forward to press the side of his nose against Stan’s. When he opens his eyes again they’re remarkably warm, “Come on, Stan. I love spending time with you and I miss you when you’re not here. So if you  _ are  _ here and you’re awake, let me be awake with you. Please.”  _

_ “Fine,” Stan says after a pause, eyes lingering on Bill’s, hands coming up to rest on Bill’s cheeks as he pulls him in for a quick, firm kiss, silently relieved, “But only because I love you.”  _

Bill kept his promise. He never acted bothered when, without fail, at least once a month Stan poked him awake in the middle of the night. Even two years in, when Stan was sure Bill would just start rolling over with a promise to talk in the morning, he didn’t. Instead he’d blink awake with this sleepy little smile and say  _ Mm, another sleepover?  _

Sometimes they’d play a board game or watch a movie, sometimes they’d lay in bed, while Bill read aloud from one of the many books in their collection but Stan’s favorites were when Bill was toying with a new idea for a story. On those times they’d lay in bed with only the lamp on, Stan’s head on Bill’s chest, their fingers tangled together but ever moving, and Bill would just think aloud. He’d talk about different worlds he wants to create, about the intricacies of characters; they’re flaws, they’re ticks. And Stan would listen and laugh, nudging his nose against the line of Bill’s collar bone. 

Now, he stares at the ceiling alone and wishes Bill were here. Quiet nights can’t be fun like this, not with just one person; it takes two to whisper quietly and the silence can be so overbearing. 

He grabs at the book on his nightstand, flipping through it but unable to focus. The words are too familiar and that’s the problem; he remembers staying up with Bill all night while Bill toyed with the idea.  _ What if an entire town was haunted? _ he’d asked Stan, who’d just laughed and said  _ What?  _ Bill stared at the ceiling and brought Stan’s hand up to his mouth, placing soft kisses on each knuckle.  _ Just something I’ve been thinking about,  _ he whispered,  _ The idea that something can be so horrible it permeates an entire town, even when it’s not awake.  _ Stan hadn’t said much; it best not to start asking questions until the book is actually done, but he’d been intrigued. 

And here the book is, heavy in his hands with a dedication made out to him. He flips through the pages quickly and surprises himself when a postcard falls out. There’s just something about it that strikes Stan’s memory, something that has been trying to come out since he first saw it. 

_ Greetings from Georgia!  _ it says but that can’t be why it’s stuck out to him. He’d neither been to Georgia nor known anyone from Georgia before he’d settled here himself, so that can’t be it.  _ Greetings from Georgia, Greetings from Georgia.... _

It’s the  _ font _ . That stupid, generic font is the same as the tattoo Bill had been looking at but been too chicken to get for months. His didn’t say  _ Greetings from Georgia _ though, the one he looked at had said  _ Time is never planned _ . 

_ “Time is never planned?” Stan asked, scrunching his nose at the design Bill holds in front of him, “What is that supposed to mean?”  _

_ “That time is never linear, that things happen and we can’t stop them,” Bill says, pulling his phone away so he can look at the image himself, then smiling up at Stan, “That we’re still just kids.”  _

_ “Bill,” Stan starts, smiling back, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re like twenty-eight.”  _

_ “Sure. But we’ll always be kids, all of us Losers,” Bill laughs, “As long as we stick together.”  _

Stan stares down at the postcard and in a fit of sleep deprived energy decides  _ fuck it.  _ He rips the drawer on his night stand out, rummaging wildly through its contents until he finds a pen. Bill had always appreciated honesty and he can break up with Stan if he wants but he’s going to get his goddamn honesty. 

Stan writes in too neat handwriting,  _ I wish you were here  _ on the back side of the card, next to an address that used to be his own. He flies out of bed and into the kitchen to grab his wallet, yanking all the contents out until the last little stamp falls softly onto the counter. He makes sure it’s placed neatly in the corner and half stumbles, half power walks out of his house and down the driveway to the neighborhood mailbox where he almost violently shoves the card into the outgoing mail slot. No going back now. 

~*-*~

They had been doing really good. Better than Stan’s father had ever predicted; he’d never really liked Bill and guaranteed that the two of them would be over by the time Stanley had graduated college. But that’s not what happened. Stanley had gone to the University of Maine for a degree in Accounting and Bill to Bowdoin University against his mother’s wishes for a degree in Creative Writing. Their schools were an hour apart, so they made time for each other on the weekends, usually in the form of making out in the cab of Bill’s ancient truck. Bill graduated a year early and took a job as an english teacher while he worked on his first book, living in a tiny cheap apartment to try and pay off student loans. The apartment was old and run down and Stan had loved it; he’d moved in the second he graduated. 

Small things changed over the years, sure, but  _ they _ never did, not to each other. Stan got a good job at a local business and Bill’s first novel was a huge success leading into another and another. They moved into a nice house with a lofty master bedroom and a hammock in the backyard. They hosted game nights with nice food and drinks and finally had a big enough space to let all of their friends crash there at once. Things were nice. Things were steady. 

And then Stanley had to ruin it. 

He wasn’t expecting things to go this bad, not when he got the job offer. He’d be basically starting his own company, building the place up from scratch. It promised more prestige with his job title and a nice pay bump to boot. The only problem was that he’d have to leave Maine, start over again in Georgia. The idea hadn’t sounded so scary back then, not when he pictured Bill at his side, melting in the summer heat next to him. 

But Bill hadn’t been as excited. 

_ “You want us to move  _ where? _ ” Bill had asked, eyebrows raised high on his forehead.  _

_ “Georgia,” Stan had said, taking a step closer to Bill in their kitchen only for Bill to take a step back, “Atlanta, to be more specific.”  _

_ “Georgia. Really,” Bill said, looking unimpressed, “And what do you expect me to do there?”  _

_ “Well, I mean, you’re a writer, Bill,” Stan had stumbled, looking up at Bill, “Can’t you do that anywhere?”  _

_ “I guess,” Bill snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, “But that doesn’t change the fact that my whole life is here.  _ Our _ whole lives are here.”  _

_ “And we can have lives there too, Bill,” Stan pleaded, walking towards Bill and resting his hands on Bill’s elbows, thumbs rubbing gently into the skin of his forearms, “And it would only be for a few years.”  _

_ “Oh just a few  _ years _ ?” Bill asks, breaking Stanley’s hold and pacing back and forth across their kitchen, “Just a few years somewhere away from our friends, and, and my brother and my parents-” _

_ “When was the last time you even spoke to your parents?”  _

_ “Oh, that is so  _ not _ what this is about, Stanley,” Bill snaps, turning to glare at him, “So, what? You already made this decision for us? I don’t even get a say?” _

_ “Of course you get a say, I told them I needed a few days to think about it,” Stan hurries, trying to smooth things over, “But Bill, I really want to do this. It’ll be a new experience for both of us, and it will advance my career and-”  _

_ “And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Not us being happy, no, just making sure you get ahead?”  _

_ “That’s not fair, Bill,” Stan fights back but he can already feel himself losing. Different conversations flash through Stan’s mind then, Bill laughing, saying he never wants to long distance again, Bill questioning Richie and Eddie about the road, saying he’d never want to leave Maine for that long, Bill crying when Georgie went to California for college. He looks at Bill’s posture now, stiff and folded up, angry, unwilling to give even an inch, “I don’t complain when you go on writers retreats, or when you move us to a cabin to write because it’s more ‘quiet’.”  _

_ “That’s different and you know it!” Bill snaps back, “I don’t take us out of the state and I would never move us away for that long!”  _

_ “You wouldn’t do this for me?” Stanley asks in a small voice, he dips his head, letting his curls fall in his face, “Relationships are about sacrifice but you wouldn’t, you won’t-” _

_ “Stanley-” Bill starts and Stan can see it on his face; he can see there what Bill is about to say and he doesn’t want to hear it, so he makes a decision. Squaring off his shoulders, he calms his breathing and tries to sound as confident as possible.  _

_ “You don’t have to come,” Stan interrupts, looking anywhere but Bill’s face. He doesn’t want to see whatever emotions are passing there, doesn’t want to see the sadness or confusion or god forbid  _ relief _ that might be painted there.  _

_ “What?” _

_ “You don’t have to come,” Stan repeats, “If that, if that won’t make you happy. If you’d rather stay here. You don’t have to come. I won’t make you.”  _

_ “And you?” Bill asks, in a voice devoid of all the anger that was there only a few moments ago. _

_ “Well,” Stan shrugs as if to say  _ what choice do I have now? _ “I’m going to go and I, I understand if that’s not what you want. I do. You can stay here. You don’t have to come with me.”  _

_ “Stanley...”  _

_ “It’s fine, really, I get it,” he says, looking up and trying for a smile that doesn’t wobble, “And hey, I’ll be back in a few years and I’m sure I’ll come home for the holidays and stuff. It’s fine.”  _

_ “You don’t want me to come with you?” Bill asks, disbelief inking his voice.  _

_ “No,” Stan says and it’s the truth; if moving to Georgia is enough to break Bill, it’s not worth it, the eventual resentment he would feel for Stan is not worth it. But it’s also his unwillingness to shake, to consider, to bend, that leaves Stan unsettled. So Stan has to go and Bill has to stay, “Not like this.”  _

_ “Fine,” Bill says, voice cracking, arms crossed again, “I’d rather stay here.” _

_ “Okay,” Stan whispers, feeling his heart break into a tiny little shards. His hands shake and he can’t find it in himself to look at Bill so he grabs his car keys and nods towards the door, “I have some, some shopping to do. They want me down there pretty soon.” _

_ Bill doesn’t say anything as Stan flees the house and he doesn’t come out to watch Stan back out of the driveway. Stan makes it halfway to Richie’s house before he has to pull over.  _

_ “Stupid,” Stan whispers into the steering wheel, hands flying up to wipe away tears, “Of course he wouldn’t want to go. Stupid.”  _

And now Stan is here and alone. He has a promotion in title and salary and he’s never felt more unhappy in his entire life. 

~*-*~

The next day when Stan gets home from work, he focuses on imagining himself falling asleep. He’d snoozed for an hour at lunch, which had somehow left him feeling more groggy than before. Now, he pours himself a glass of bourbon and settles into his soft couch, hoping to relax a little. He doesn’t try to do anything, lets his puzzle sit forgotten on the table and doesn’t bother turning the TV on. He refills his glass again and just one more time. Then he stumbles into his room, out of his clothes and lands on the bed, demanding his body fall asleep. 

When it doesn’t and he’s left staring at his ceiling thirty minutes later he gets so irrationally angry he throws the first things his hand lands on; a pillow. Then the other pillow. He knocks over his lamp and throws a book,  _ the _ book and stares with horror as it slams against the wall and falls to the floor in a sad heap. He picks up his phone and checks his missed calls and lets out a little cry of despair when he sees none of them say  _ Bill _ . 

He dials their,  _ Bill’s _ , house number angrily, feeling it only rise with every ring of the phone. No one answers,  _ typical _ , and by the time the automated message beeps Stan realizes he still doesn’t know what he’s going to say. 

“Hey, Bill, it’s Stan, again,” he starts, wiping his hand across his mouth, “Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me but I can’t  _ sleep _ and I miss your voice and I miss your arms around me and this bed doesn’t feel right without you in it and, and I can’t sleep and-

“And,” he cuts himself off with a gasp, bottom lip trembling, “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear from me anymore, I won’t call you again. I’m sorry.”

He hangs up the phone in a daze, half wishing he’d never picked up his phone in the first place, and drops back down onto his bed with a heavy thump. 

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers into the black room, “I would have broken up with me too.”

~*-*~

“Did you call him?” Richie asks instead of saying hello. 

“Yes,” Stan sighs into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger. His headache has been ever present and unsurprisingly Richie shouting into his ear isn’t helping.

“And?”

“And he didn’t answer,” Stan replies. He’s standing in front of his mirror in the bathroom, leaning close to look at the purple bruises under his eyes. He’s gotten some sleep over the past few days, a couple hours here and there. He just hasn’t gotten any  _ good _ sleep. 

Richie is silent on the other end for too long; it’s more telling than anything, really, “He didn’t answer?”

“Or call me back,” Stan winces at the pitifulness in his own voice, “Either time.” 

“Shit,” Richie breathes into the receiver; Stan can picture him now, running his fingers through his hair, probably smoking a cigarette outside of a venue, “Are you serious?” 

“What would I get from lying about this, Richie?”

“I don’t know, Staniel Radcliffe,” Richie says and Stan can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s nervous, “You _ have _ always had a very dark sense of humor.” 

“Not about this,” Stan shrugs, still staring at his tired, wrinkled from in the mirror, “I guess he just doesn’t want to talk to me.” 

“Shit,” Richie says again, this time louder, “Shit. I’m sorry. I really thought he would answer.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stan replies in a tired voice, leaning his hip against the sink, “I should have known better. Usually when you break up with someone, you don’t want them leaving pathetic messages in your voicemail.” 

“When you...” Richie mumbles and then pauses for a long time, long enough for Stan to pull back from the phone to check if he hung up, “Bill broke up with you?”

“Well, yeah,” Stan says though he kind of wants to say _ duh _ . Stan would never have been dumb enough to break up with Bill. 

“That’s...” Richie says like he’s trying to work through something, “That’s something. And you’re sure he hasn’t called you back?”

“I’m sure, Richie.”

“What the fuck,” Richie whispers, “That’s-what? Eds? You need me? Sorry, gotta go, Stan, I’ll call you later, bye!” 

The line goes dead before Stan has a chance to say goodbye. 

~*-*~

Two weeks of radio silence. He doesn’t hear from Richie or Eddie and he definitely doesn’t hear from Bill, which hurts deep inside more than he would like to admit. It’s one thing to know Bill isn’t in love with him anymore, it’s something completely different to know Bill doesn’t even  _ like _ him anymore. 

His days have been mundane; he goes to work and comes home to an empty house, too quiet and not enough distractions. He sleeps a few hours a night and pretends to be energetic at work the next morning. He rides the subway and walks home from the station and pretends he’s still in Derry where things feel like  _ home _ . 

Today, when he gets home there is someone sitting on his front porch steps. He can see them from afar, as he walks up the street. They’re sitting with their legs spread, head dropped low to look at the pavement beneath them, hair shining russet in the setting sun. It’s the hair, it’s the posture, it’s the build that makes Stan’s heart stutter and stop and then speed up all at once.  _ It can’t be, _ he tells his heart, begging the balloon of hope to pop before it gets too big. 

But it is. When he reaches the end of his driveway the sound of his footsteps must have alerted his guest of his presence because their head snaps up to look at him and there he is. Bill looks tired, dark circles line the skin under his eyes and his mouth opens like he’s going to say something but then it just hangs there. Stan stops in his place at the end of the driveway, scared to get any closer. 

“Bill?” his voice cracks and his grip on his briefcase tightens, knuckles white as he takes a few cautious steps forward. 

“Stan,” Bill breathes out, standing up and running a hand through his hair. It’s only then that Stan notices Bill is holding something, a piece of paper or a note or-  _ The postcard _ . 

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, veins going cold, “I’m sorry, I know I said I’d stop and I  _ will _ it’s just, it’s hard to let go and I don’t want to make this weird for you but-”

“What? Stan, hold on, stop,” Bill says, rushing forward until he’s only a few feet in front of him. His hands fly out and brush the air like they’re going to land on Stan’s shoulders but he must think better of it because they drop back to his sides before he can make any contact, “Listen, I, can we talk? Inside?” 

“Yeah,” Stan mumbles after a long pause, yanking his keys out of his pocket with shaking hands, “Yeah, of course.” 

He fumbles with the door, turning to look at Bill when he pushes it open and takes a step inside, “Just, yeah, follow me.” 

“Okay,” Bill says quietly, walking a few feet behind Stanley. He shuts the door softly behind him, keeping his eyes on the ground the whole time. His shoulders are drooped and Stan can see him picking at the skin around his thumbnail the way he always does when he’s nervous. 

“Do you want a drink?” Stan asks, busying himself by walking into the kitchen and looking around as if everything here is new to him, “I have water, or, I think I have beer here somewhere-”

“Stan,” Bill interrupts, finally looking up at Stan’s eyes. He’s standing in the family room opposite Stanley, the kitchen bar right between them. With slow movements he places the postcard on the bar countertop, hands spread flat next to it, “I think we need to talk.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here for that, you know,” Stan whispers, dropping his gaze to the tile floor beneath his feet, “I know you don’t  _ want _ to talk to me, I was going to stop.” 

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Bill asserts, stopping to bite at his lip, “And I just don’t know what you mean. Why would  _ I  _ not want to talk to  _ you? _ ” 

A million things run through Stan’s mind but what he eventually lands on is, “Why would you?” 

“Richie told me you think I broke up with you,” Bill very nearly accuses and it’s that statement that has Stan snapping his head up, dark curls bouncing with the movement. 

“You did.” 

“No,” Bill says slowly, like he’s explaining to a child, “You broke up with me.”

“What, no, that’s not, I would  _ never _ -”

“Stan you told me you were moving across the country and you didn’t want me to come with you, what else would that mean?” Bill demands, fingers sliding against the edges of the postcard. 

“I didn’t want you to come only to hate it here! To hate me for  _ bringing  _ you here!” Stan snaps back, throat raw, “And it doesn’t matter because you weren’t going to; I could tell that’s what you were saying. I was just trying to let you off easy.” 

“Jesus Christ, Stanley,” Bill snaps back, throwing his hands in the air, “I was mad because you dropped this on me and expected me to be jumping for joy at the idea of leaving everything I’ve ever known but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t planning to go with you!”

“I, what?” Stanley stutters, eyes wide and wet, “You were?”

“I was always planning to come with you. Until you told me  _ you _ didn’t want me to,” Bill sighs, looking down at the counter. They stand in awkward silence, shuffling in the space around them, until Bill looks up pulling the postcard with him, “What does this mean?”

“Exactly what it says,” Stan shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets nervously, “It means...I miss you. And moving out here, being alone, it’s all so scary but...but imagining you here with me makes it all a little less scary.” 

“Why did you write it?” Bill shakes his head, “I mean after all this time?” 

“Honestly? I went three days without sleep and all I could think about was waking you up so we could be awake together but you’re not  _ here _ and I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry,” Stan rushes out, looking down again, “But I still don’t understand. Why did you come out here? You could have just called me back and gotten this all settled.”

“Stan,” Bill sighs, walking around the bar so he stands a foot in front of Stan with nothing in between them, “I wasn’t, I wasn’t  _ trying _ to ignore you. You called the house phone but I’ve, I’ve been in LA talking to all these stupid businessmen about turning one of my books into a movie and I didn’t  _ know  _ you’d called, if you’d just called my cell phone, I would have, Stan I’ll  _ always _ answer for you, you have to know that.” 

“If,” Stan starts, ignoring the way his heart warms at Bill’s words, “You haven’t been home. How’d you know about the postcard?” 

“Bev called me,” Bill says, taking a tiny step closer, “She’s been getting my mail and she, I almost didn’t believe her when she told me because why would you send me something like that after you  _ left _ me-” 

“Because I love you,” Stan ventures, looking up at Bill with wide eyes, “I’ve always loved you.” 

“You left,” Bill whispers in a shaky voice. It breaks Stan’s heart so he takes a step closer, hand twitching to grab onto him, to hold him close. 

“I’m sorry,” he says as earnestly as he can, eyes locked on Bill’s. 

“I should have followed you,” Bill says, a look of anguish crossing over his face. His eyebrows are furrowed together and his bottom lip shakes and Stan is desperate, desperate to wipe that look away, to smooth out his features so they’re only ever happy. 

“You didn’t know,” he tries to comfort, but it doesn’t work because Bill’s shoulders begin to shake. 

“But I should have!” Bill shouts back, nose flaring, “I  _ should _ have because it’s the same for me! God my heart has been  _ aching  _ since you left, I should have come after you-”

“Bill.” 

“I shouldn’t have let us leave it like that-”

“Bill.” 

“After all that time-”

“Can I kiss you?” Stan asks finally, silencing Bill, because he wants that look off Bill’s face, he wants to wash away his regrets, he wants to  _ touch _ him again after all this time. Bill doesn’t respond, not verbally at least. But he takes a step forward and bring his hand to Stan’s face, fingertips lightly tracing Stan’s cheekbone. After staring into Stan’s eyes for far too long, his soft touch turns into a firm grip and he pulls Stan forward hard, letting their lips meet with a clash. It’s too much and yet Stanley feels his own arms coming up, latching around Bill’s waist to hold him closer, keep him trapped there. 

“Stan,” Bill whispers into his lips, voice hoarse, cheeks wet, “ _ Stan _ .” 

“I’m here,” Stan whispers back, pulling away to rest his forehead against Bill’s, “I’m right here if you still want me.” 

“I always want you,” Bill mumbles back, lips brushing against Stan’s when he talks, “ _ Always _ , and I’m not gonna let you do this shit again, I hope you know.”

“Ha,” Stan laughs brokenly, wiggling his body closer to Bill’s so he can feel his body heat wrapped around him, “I’ll hold you to that.” 

“Can I stay here tonight?” Bill asks, eyes twinkling, “I didn’t exactly have time to book a hotel room.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Don’t worry about it, I’ll drive you to the motel a couple blocks away they always have rooms available,” Stan says as seriously as he can manage, laughing when Bill pinches his side, “ _ Of course _ you can stay here, I’m not letting you go again and  _ apparently _ I can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

“Mm, I remember,” Bills hums, leaning close to Stan again, “Little baby Stanley can’t sleep unless he’s being spooned.”

“Oh, shut up, before I kick you out,” Stan laughs and pulls away to thread their fingers together, dragging Bill out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. He stops in the family room and looks at the strangely empty front door, “Did you even bring anything with you?”

“I...” Bill blushes, “I kind of jumped in my car and headed to the airport as soon as I saw your note.” 

“Bill,” Stan whispers, leaning close to press against his lips again, “That’s so gay.” 

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Bill whines, squeezing Stan’s hand in his own, “Now show me to your bed.” 

“To sleep,” Stan asserts. 

“Among other things,” Bill laughs at the dark blush that forms under Stan’s cheeks, “But not tonight. Tonight I just want to hold you.” 

“Gay,” Stan whispers again and drags Bill through his house, ready to wrap himself around Bill like an octopus and never let go. He thinks Bill might be ready to do the same thing.

~*-*~

Bill climbs into his bed while Stan undresses. Stan can’t help but watch, reveling in the fact that in a second he’ll be there too, pressed into Bill’s side like that’s where he belongs. Bill doesn’t hesitate to make himself comfortable, flopping around under the blanket until he settles in just right and brings his arms up, hands resting underneath his head. Then he looks at Stan with this smug little  _ you coming?  _ expression and that’s all Stan needs really. 

He crawls into his own bed and slides in next to Bill, tangling their legs together and resting his head on Bill’s chest. He can hear the way Bill’s heart flutters so he wraps his fingers in Bill’s shirt and holds him even closer, warm bodies pressed tight together. Bill’s arm comes down to wrap around Stan’s shoulders and Stan is almost certain he’s never been this comfortable in this bed. 

Until Bill starts to shake beneath him and for a long, horrible second he thinks he might be crying. But then he hears a snorts and Bill’s fingers tighten their hold on the sleeve of Stanley’s t-shirt and Stanley can’t help but turn over, resting his chin on Bill’s chest to watch his smiling face. 

“What?” he asks, smiling up at Bill because he’s not sure he know how not to anymore. 

“It’s just,” Bill starts, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Stan’s forehead, “I can’t  _ believe  _ you didn’t remember that bike scene the first time you read it.” 

“Well,  _ sorry _ I don’t remember everything-”

“No, I just mean, Stanley, I wrote the whole  _ book _ for you,” Bill laughs again, stopping Stan in his tracks, “And you didn’t even realize you were one of the main characters the  _ whole _ time.” 

“You, you wrote it for me?”

“What?” Bill smirks and asks in a faux serious tone, “Was the dedication not enough?” 

“I thought, you know, it was your way of saying I love you, not that you wrote the whole thing for me,” Stan mumbles with an increasingly warm blush. 

“Stanley,” Bill says, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at Stan, who’s still rested gently on his chest, “They’re  _ all _ for you. You’re the only person I want to write for and the only one I want to wow.” 

“I...” Stan starts, trying to think of what to say. In the end, he drops his face into Bill’s chest, hiding the smile that has consumed his cheeks. His hand tightens on Bill’s shirt, knuckles tickling Bill’s side, shuddering when Bill drops back down and brings his arms back around Stan, “I love you.” 

“What?” Bill teases, “I can’t hear you.”

“I love you, you asshole,” Stan snaps back, but the smile still lingering on his face dampens any bite it could have had. 

“Hmm, I guess I love you too. I mean I have mentioned you in the acknowledgements in  _ all _ my books,” Bill laughs, one hand coming to tangle in Stan’s hair, warm and heavy and exactly where Stan wants it, “ _ Including  _ the novella that got published before we even started dating.” 

“Okay, I get it, I get it,” Stan laughs, lifting his head and reaching up so there noses hover a centimeter or two away from each other, “I’m an idiot, I know.” 

“Mm, not an idiot,” Bill hums, eyes heavy lidded as he looks down to meet Stan’s. His hand lowers from Stan’s hair to rest on his face, thumb rubbing slow circles along his cheek bones, “I’ll just have to try harder.” 

~*-*~

A year later things are different; Bill still doesn’t live in Georgia full time. His book,  _ The Glowing _ , is well on it’s way to becoming a feature length movie and Bill, being the anal retentive man he is, refused to sign any contracts that wouldn’t allow him to be a script writer and on set half the time. So he spends at least half of every week in Los Angeles dealing with what he terms “suit rats” ( _ “You realize I have to wear a suit to work everyday, right?” Stan had asked the first time Bill had used to term around him. Bill had looked him up and down, the tip of his tongue poking out to lick his lips, “Oh, I’m  _ well _ aware.” Stan smacked him on the chest and sighed, “Why are you like this?” Bill had laughed and shrugged, reaching his hands out to pull Stan closer, “You love it. And besides there’s a difference between someone who wears a suit and a suit rat. It’s a state of mind Stan, and you just don’t have it.” “And what am I then?” Stan asked, letting himself be gathered up in Bill’s arms. “You are the bird-loving, nerdy, incredibly sarcastic love of my life. Definitely not suit rat material,” Bill smiled, hand coming up to massage Stan’s scalp. Stan blushed and promptly hid his face in the crook of Bill’s neck, “Sound logic.” _ ) 

Bill also still owns the house in Maine. Stan’s pretty sure it’s because Bill is just biding his time until he gets to whisk Stan away from the southern heat and back to the tall trees and cool air of Derry. Stan hasn’t said anything himself, but he’s ready to go back. He’s going to stick out one more year and then will be on the next flight back to Maine. He misses his friends and his house and his town. And he kind of hates the south. 

He doesn’t have to miss Bill though, at least most of the time. Even when he’s not here, puttering around Stan’s house or crowding into his side of the bed, they talk everyday. They facetime and call each other and send a series of dumb texts all throughout the day. Stan hasn’t had to go an entire day without talking to Bill since he came home to find him on his porch. 

That, and Bill’s stuff now litters every free space in his house. He has his books on the shelf, his writing supplies on the desk, his clothes in the closet and his food in the fridge. The house has  _ Bill _ in it even when he’s not there; it’s not scary empty like it was before. 

When Stan gets home that night, he knows it’ll just be him but it’s okay because Bill will be home tomorrow. There’s a package on his doorstep that he grabs at absentmindedly, pulling his keys out of his pocket. Unlocking his door, he focuses more on his phone, dialling Bill’s number. 

“Hey babe,” Bill answers after only two rings. 

“Hey,” Stan says back, dropping the package on his dining room table and kicking his shoes off, “How’s LA?”

“Ugh. Suit rats,” Bill sighs, sounding suddenly more tired than before. 

“It can’t be that bad.” 

“You’re right, everytime I have to talk to them, I just remember that I’m coming home tomorrow and it all gets a little better,” Bill all but whines (though he would never admit to that). 

“You’re so cheesy,” Stan laughs, loosening his tie and pulling off his jacket. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s  _ so _ cheesy that your boyfriend loves you,” Bill waves off. Stan is almost ninety percent sure Bill only says it because he  _ knows _ it will make Stan blush, “Hey did you get my package?”

“Your package?” Stan asks, wrinkling his nose. 

“Not like  _ that _ , you dirty bird,” Bill laughs, “It was supposed to be delivered already.” 

“Umm,” Stan says, looking at the room around him, eyes finally landing on the little brown box he’d just left on the table, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, it came in today.”

“Great, open it.” 

“But it yours,” Stan protests, though he’s already bringing the box into the kitchen to cut the tape. 

“And  _ I’m  _ telling you to open it.”

“Sure, sure,” Stan waves off, daintily opening the box in front of him. Inside, it’s filled with packing peanuts and air filled plastic and at the very bottom a book. It’s thick and hardcover, the jacket mostly black and glossy with  _ William Denbrough _ written in big blocky letters, “Your new book! Oh,  _ The Dark _ , I like it.” 

“I’m glad,” Bill hums, “Did you look inside?” 

“I’m doing it now,” Stan replies, carefully cracking the book open and flipping through pages. And there, at the very front is the dedication: 

_ To Stanley,  _

_ My muse, my ideal reader and my toughest critic.  _

_ I write for you.  _

“Bill,” Stan whispers into the phone, hand shaking, “Bill.” 

“I told you,” Bill says back in a soft voice, “Everything is for you, Stan. I do it all for you.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hi i started this thinking i'd really enjoy writing it and at about 5k i realized i kind of hate writing angst but i'd already written so much i didn't want to just give up on it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ so here we are. maybe one of you will like it, i just know if i look at it for one more day i'll go crazy.
> 
> [talk to me on tumblr!](https://stanleyyelnatsthethird.tumblr.com)


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